Dream Drabble: Athwart the Roof
By David Hartley Mark
A sound like nails screeching along a chalkboard; a smell like molten lava—the curious mixture of rotten eggs, bloodlike copper, with an undertone of—dark chocolate, almost, and the faintest crispness of burning Autumnal leaves: passage of Time; calendar leaves….
Lanthorn in hand, I walkt softly, tiptoed, along a mansion’s mansard roof, passing a monk perched thereupon who, quill in hand, asked,
“What is your purpose, here?”
“Who are you?” I replied, recalling Alice’s Caterpillar. The air grew closer, smelt more foul.
“I am, Young Man,” he said, unsmiling, “The Manciple, the Provider.”
“What provisions have you made?” I asked.